Nefertiti's-Heart

upstairs?" she asked in a louder tone and pointed to the floor above.
"Yes," he replied automatically. Then his brain caught up with his tongue.

"No, she's not receiving."
Too late; Cara was already halfway up the stairs.
She stood at the top, wondering which way to the master suite, when she

heard an odd crooning noise. The hair on the back of her neck rose, but she
followed the sound anyway. She crept down the threadbare carpet, floorboards
creaking under her weight. Paintings of grim ancestors lined the walls. They all
stared down elongated noses with looks of haughty disdain. Some had round
holes in their foreheads, Cara leaned closer to inspect one and discovered it was
a bullet hole.

She drew away from the executed portraits to track down the singing. The
lullaby came from behind panelled double doors that stood partially cracked
open. Like me. I'm cracked for being here.

She rapped lightly with the back of her knuckles. "Countess de Sal? It's
Cara Devon."

No answer. She knocked louder, then slid the doors apart.
Countess de Sal sat up in an enormous four-poster bed. An ancient
tapestry of earth tones hung around the bed and dropped down in swags at each
corner. Embroidered leaves, vines, and tree branches clambered over the
tapestry. The countess lay surrounded by numerous cushions of matching shades
of brown and green. She cradled a pug dog dressed in a green gown, as she sang

a lullaby. The dog looked as desperate to escape as Cara felt.
The countess looked up and stopped singing. "You."
"Yes, me." Cara's eyes swept the room. The heavy drapes were closed

against invading sunlight. Coal burned brightly in the large fireplace, despite the
fact they were fast moving toward July. The fire heated air already overwarm
and stifling.

The countess captured Cara's attention again with a thump.
"Have you slept with Nate yet?" She burst into laughter, and waggled her
finger at Cara. The dog took its opportunity the loosened grip afforded, and shot
from her arms like a cannon ball from the barrel. In a blur of green taffeta, the
little canine was out the door and gone. Without missing a beat, the mad woman
picked up a cushion to clutch to her bosom instead. She stroked the tassels, as if
the cushion was a longhaired cat. "A little birdie tells me you are resisting his
charms."
Cara thought certain little birdies needed shooting, if she ever found out
who they were. "I need to talk to you about a book. Not my love life."
"And not about love letters, for I hear they have been returned to Isobel's
hands. If you change your mind, I could lend you books on love. I have many
illustrated ones on the physical aspect. I'm sure Nate would prove a most
enthusiastic tutor." Laughter rolled from her, thick and fast, the crazed sound too
loud in the stuffy bedchamber.
Cara needed to get the conversation moving in the right direction, before

she dwelt on what exactly Nathaniel could teach her. "I'm here about a book.
Magycks of the Gods. I believe you purchased it some years ago?"

The countess threw her head back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling.
She remained immobile for so long, Cara worried she would have to reach out
and give her a quick poke, to see if she still breathed.

"Why do you want it?" her voice sounded calmer, less strident.
"Call it research." Her eyes roamed the room, lingering on the small
wooden box with brass corners on the bedside table.
"I need a better answer than that, if you want me to part with a valuable
mystical book."
Cara blew out a snort of air and took a punt. Anything to escape the
melting heat; sweat tried to trickle down the inside of her tightly-laced corset. "I
think there's something in the book that is connected to the murdered girls."
The older woman sat bolt upright, the corpse struck by lightning and
springing to reanimated life.
"Really? Why didn't you say that first?" She leapt from the bed and
grabbed her dressing gown off the floor.
"Come on." She beckoned, stuffing her arms through the gown, then
vanished out the bedroom door. The gown trailed behind her, swirling with the
movement as though on unseen winds. She looked like an apparition, haunting
her own home, moving silently on bare feet.
Cara didn't need to be told twice. She bolted out the door as fast as the

little pug. The countess drifted down the stairs, disappeared off to the left, and
headed along a dark corridor. Then she vanished, slipping through a wall. Still
several paces behind, Cara was relieved to see a door and she wasn't chasing a
spectral entity down into the pits of Hell. Rather, over the threshold, she found a
thoroughly modern heaven—a well-outfitted library.

Two dark brown, leather wing chairs occupied the central space, sharing
an overstuffed ottoman. The walls were floor to ceiling books of every
imaginable shape, thickness, and colour. A gleaming brass rail ran around the
entire room, supporting a narrow library ladder on wheels, secured by its casters.
Soft electric lights lit the room, turning it into a secluded cave, where anyone
could escape the harsh realities waiting outside the front door.

The countess stretched out her arms and spun round and round, absorbing
the comforting atmosphere of the library. When she opened her eyes and looked
at Cara, she seemed calmer and more lucid. Rubbing her hands together in
anticipation, she stalked to the shelves. She peered at the book titles, hands ran
along spines, as she muttered words under her breath.

"You want to know, don't you?" The question was unexpected and directed
at Cara.

"Yes." She knew it wasn't polite to pry, but screw it, she really wanted to
know how the other woman had spiralled into madness. Cara thought her
behaviour was more than the effect of the pox on her mind. Part of Cara hoped
she would learn enough to stop her taking the same plummet off the deep end.

"Curiosity killed the cat." De Sal watched the play of emotion over Cara's
face.

"And satisfaction brought it back." Or, at least, let it die with a smile on its
face.

She went back to examining the books. "I was his mistress for nearly
twenty years."

Cara frowned trying to connect what few facts she knew. Nathaniel was
approaching thirty, and unless he was a very precocious child, they were talking
about someone else.

"His uncle. I was a girl of fifteen, escaping France, when he introduced me
to the pleasures of the flesh and took me as his mistress." The countess gave a
small sigh, and reached above her head to pull out a dull grey book. The
covering on the spine had come loose and it dangled free, like a flap of skin
exposing the vertebrae beneath.

"The Lyons family closed ranks and protected their own. Nate's father
knew his brother had the pox, but no one stopped him, or warned me. He had
already infected his wife and child. And they let him take up with me. Then,
after twenty years as his faithful lover, he simply walked out on me. He left me
to fester in my own rampaging symptoms, with only the mercury to comfort
me."

An awkward social situation loomed before Cara, one never covered in
etiquette class. She certainly would have remembered the day they practiced

What To Do when someone reveals a lover infected them with the pox, dumped
them after stealing their youth, and left them alone to slide into insanity. She
chose silence as the more appropriate response.

"I was there when Nate was born and watched him grow up. We were
close once. Then he changed. He shut his emotions away and became like them.
He did promise me revenge on his uncle. And he honoured his word." She held
out the book, Magycks of the Gods stamped in large black letters across the
front.

Cara took the book. "What was he like? As a boy?"
A broad smile split her face. "As charming as he is now. But so open. As
he grew older, he threw up his defences, to protect himself. His relationship with
his father was not a happy one."
She snorted. "I know what that is like."
De Sal tilted her head. "You are not so different."
Her fingers trailed along the shelf, stopping at a large red spine.
"Are you sure you don't want a book?" She drew her nails down the spine,
revealing one ornate letter at a time. K. A. M. A. S. U.—
"I know that book." Cara halted the finger's progress; heat climbed up her
throat. "I have spent time in India."
The countess clapped her hands together, delighted with the gem of
knowledge. "Excellent. You will be a surprise to Nate, then."
And somehow, we have detoured back to my love life.

She tapped a fingernail on the ancient book in Cara's hands. "Let me know
what you find. I expect to hear all the gory details. I like your visits. No one else
is brave enough to cross my threshold, apart from my little songbird who trills
information. You must call me Helene. I have been too long without a real
friend."

Dust motes rose off the old cover. Helene flicked a hand to brush one
away, and grazed her nose. She gave a startled cry as the organ slid down her
face and hit the carpet. Wide eyes looked at Cara. Two metal prongs glinted,
showing the exposed artificial nose attachments. The pox had eaten away all the
gristle, and left a gaping, open hole in her once beautiful face.

A flash of green and the small pug dog dove on the nose and darted from
the library with its trophy.

"Minnow!" Helene shrieked and ran in hot pursuit.

Chapter Sixteen



Wednesday, July 17

Three keys sat on the corner of Inspector Fraser's desk. Amongst the
chaos, they were a sliver of order, with space neatly cleared around them. Each
key was an identical distance from its companions. Teeth faced inward; ornate
filigree bows touched the outer edge of the desk. Through the bows, and
attached with twine, cardboard labels dangled over the side. Inscribed in black
ink on each label was the name of a girl. A dead girl. Three lives locked, never to
be opened again.

Fraser stood and touched the closest key with his fingertips. Beth
Armstrong. He walked with leaden feet up the stairs to the superintendent's
office. Taking a deep breath, he rapped sharply on the door.

"Enter," barked an order. The super occupied an entire corner on the top
floor, with a picturesque view of the city. He stood at his window, a dispatch
dangling from his fingers. He looked up at Fraser's entry.

"Ah, Fraser, what progress have you made?" Clipped tones indicated
another military man. A colonel in a former life, he was used to having his
orders obeyed and never questioned.

Fraser halted in the middle of the room and coughed to clear his throat. "I

believe I am starting to discern a pattern among the victims—"
"Starting? You're starting to discern something?" His superior swung to

regard him, a thick red vein pulsing in his temple. "We have three dead young
women. Gentlewomen, Fraser. Do you understand? Three dead ladies, not your
common street tarts. How many have to die before you find him?"

Fraser hated this bit. The victim's place of birth should have no influence
over how much effort he expended to find the killer. Street girl or noble, they
both deserved the same level of attention from him. Although given a choice, he
would rather seek out a street girl for comfort than any highly bred, nervous
creature. "I'm sure you appreciate, sir, we need to examine all the clues to find
the monstrous person responsible."

"I need you to appreciate that I want to be able to enjoy a quiet brandy in
my club without being accosted by anxious aristocrats!" the superintendent
bellowed. "London is in an uproar, we have some chap stalking and killing the
daughters of the nobility. You cannot begin to appreciate the pressure I am under,
or how many irate questions I have to field while at my club." His voice rose and
fell with his anger, his cheeks and nose turning beetroot red.

Fraser remained calm; he had weathered such storms before. Better to let
the superintendent's rage buffet about him, bend under the pressure, and remain
standing in its wake.

"I believe we have a strong lead with Beth Armstrong. The sarcophagus
she was found in came from one of Lyons' airships." He stood with his hands

behind his back. Threads were beginning to draw together, the picture revealing
itself.

"Viscount Lyons? Be very careful of your facts before you go after him.
Just because the coffin passed through his hangar doesn't mean he's involved.
Any one of his crew could have had access to it." The superintendent tossed the
dispatch on his desk and sank into his upholstered leather chair. "He's one of us.
Be sure of your evidence."

"Quite," he agreed with his superior. But not only did he have access to the
sarcophagus, he also fences valuable and exotic items, and has a strong interest
in Cara Devon.

The superintendent waved his hand, dismissing Fraser from his presence.
"Let me know if anything else comes up. Otherwise I expect progress by the end
of the next week."

He bowed his head and remained silent, lest he say something out of turn.
Today was Wednesday; his super expected him to solve the murders within the
next ten days.

Back in his office, he flung himself into the chair and stared with unseeing
eyes at the chalkboard that covered one wall. To one side was the name Lord
Devon, and next to it the names of the girls, their addresses, and what slim
correlations he could find among them. Arrows and question marks flew back
and forth, but none hit their target. He was so close, if he reached out his hand,
he should be able to grasp it, yet when he opened his fingers, his palm was

always empty.
Connor appeared in the doorway carrying a mug of steaming tea. As he

approached the desk, he passed too closely to the chalkboard, his massive
shoulder brushing one of the names.

Fraser uttered a groan of frustration. "You rubbed out her name."
Connor plonked down the tea and looked from chalkboard to his sleeve.
"Aw, she's all over me." Using one meaty hand, he brushed the remnants
of Abigail Swan's name from where it clung to his dark blue jacket.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Fraser looked up at the chalkboard, now
minus one surname. He was running out of leads and accumulating dead girls.
Connor cast around, looking for a piece of chalk. Finding one, he
approached the board.
"Names, names, and family names," Fraser muttered, contemplating the
lonely Swan, bereft of its forename. Now, instead of representing a beautiful
young debutante, it could mean her family, her estate, or her father. Click. A cog
turned in his brain, a wheel fell into place, and a previously hidden door swung
open.
"Stop!" he cried.
Connor froze. Fraser once saved his life by halting him as he was about to
step on a land mine. Now he stopped instantly whenever Fraser used a certain
tone of voice. Connor's eyes rolled downward, as though expecting to find
something deadly attached to his leg or under his foot.

"What is it?" he whispered.
"It's the names." Fraser pushed himself away from his desk.
"What?" Connor dared a look over his shoulder, a frown creasing his
normally smooth brow.
"I've been looking at the names all wrong." He pounced on the small
duster sitting on top of a filing cabinet. "You can move now, preferably out of
the way."
Connor exhaled and gingerly stepped backward three paces.
Fraser took his place in front of the board and rapidly rubbed out Beth and
Jennifer. He left only three surnames—Lovell, Swan, and Armstrong. Above the
surnames he wrote Lord, Colonel, and Sir.
Now the board read Lord Devon, Lord Lovell, Colonel Swan, and Sir
Armstrong.
He turned to face Connor, the chalk still clutched in his fingers. "We've
been trying to connect the girls back to Devon somehow. But what if the
connection isn't the girls, but their fathers?"
His sergeant blinked. "They're of an age. Seems the four chaps would have
more in common. They probably socialised at the same clubs."
Fraser nodded. His excitement building, his skin itched for him to move,
hunt, to follow the scent. "Exactly. What if he selects the daughters because of
their fathers? Maybe the killer is trying to send a message."
Connor was not blessed with Fraser's intellect. He struggled to keep pace

with his superior. "What about Cara Devon? Why is she alive then?"
Fraser frowned. "That doesn't make sense to me either. Except she hasn't

lived in London for seven years. Only the death of her father brought her here."
"So why doesn't he go after her now?" Connor scratched his close-cropped

head.
Keen intelligence lit in Fraser's eyes. He was on the brink of solving the

puzzle. As he suspected, Cara Devon was proving the linchpin. "An interesting
question, is it not?"

Stepping back from his handiwork, Fraser took a drink from his tea, spat it
out—the liquid far too hot—and abandoned the mug. He grabbed his bowler and
jacket from their stand behind the door. "Come on, Connor. We need to revisit
the grieving fathers. This time we need to ask them what they knew of Lord
Devon."


Their first stop was the home of Lord Lovell. Fraser stared up at the
imposing, cream brick, multi-storeyed façade.

"Better you remain here, I think, Connor." He politely informed the
sergeant, as he grabbed his bowler. The other man blew out a snort and climbed
into the front seat next to the driver, leaving Fraser to tiptoe delicately through
the social minefield awaiting him.

He politely enquired of the butler if Lord Lovell could spare him five
minutes of his time.

The butler looked put out to see him at the front door, making it clear he
thought Fraser's sort should be using the back entrance.

Unperturbed, he refused to budge from the front step, forcing the butler to
usher him in so he could close the doors on the ever-watchful neighbours.

The butler disappeared down the wide hallway and then silently
reappeared, thanks to soft-soled shoes. "His lordship can spare five minutes,
Inspector."

Fraser smiled and followed the butler down the darkened hallway. He
imagined the servant would have his pocket watch out as soon as he crossed the
threshold into the study.

The tense atmosphere in the study hit him the moment he entered.
"I hope you are here to inform me of an impending arrest." Lord Lovell
bristled with anger. The passage of three weeks had done nothing to diminish his
anguish at the loss of his daughter.
"Unfortunately, no," Fraser was forced to admit, doffing his faithful
bowler. "But I am following a promising line of enquiry."
Cold, hard eyes regarded him, questioning his ability.
Extracting his notebook, he launched straight in, not wasting any of the
precious minutes allotted to him. "Did you know Lord Devon?"
Lord Lovell straightened under the question, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, we
were acquainted."
"And Colonel Swan?"

A long pause, before he answered. "I am also acquainted with the Colonel,
and with Sir Armstrong, before you ask. What exactly are you getting at,
Fraser?"

He trod carefully with his next words. "Might I enquire as to the nature of
your association?"

"We attend the same club, share a few drinks, cigars, and talk as men do."
Watchful eyes and measured words; there would be no full disclosure here.

"Is that all?" He knew he faced a tough incline ahead of him. He needed to
get to the root of their association. Nobles always guarded what they did behind
closed doors, even if it ended in murder.

"I'll tell you if I recollect anything relevant." A dismissal, his five minutes
up.

Fraser sighed. He was on the right path now, he only had to undermine
them to find the information he sought. Lord Lovell halted him at the door.

"There is one thing, which we believe requires an answer."
He turned. "Yes, milord?"
"If this all ties back to Devon, why is his daughter, Cara, still alive? She's
damaged, that one. No one would miss her. Why didn't the killer go after her and
leave our daughters alone?" His words betrayed the men had discussed the
connection to Devon.
A frown touched Fraser's face. "Unfortunately, I don't yet have a
satisfactory answer."



Chapter Seventeen



Thursday, July 18

Tired of the silent and gloomy library, and her cramped apartment, Cara
took the pragmatic step of invading Nathaniel's luxurious home. Armed with a
satchel full of books and diaries, she commandeered the ornate conservatory, the
staff too startled to stop her. When Jackson appeared, he simply told them to
leave her to it, after they provided a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of scones.

The conservatory was the closest she could get to Egypt, yearning to
immerse herself in the brief happy time and entice the last few memories to the
surface. The room had soaring indoor palms and a humid interior. She hoped the
atmosphere would put her in the right mood for her work. Small mechanical
butterflies swept around the space of all different iridescent hues. They flew
from palm to palm, before resting in the sun's rays. Their brightly enamelled
wings pulsed back and forth, catching and deflecting the sunlight. They were
beautiful and an unexpected touch of whimsy to the house of a criminal
overlord.

A white, painted daybed covered in brightly striped calico stood under one
expanse of glass. Lined up with military precision along one side were numerous
cushions. Cara threw herself upon the daybed. She extracted Magycks of the

Gods from her satchel and dropped the leather bag back on the floor. A maid
entered and deposited the tray of refreshments on the wrought iron table next to
the daybed. She gave Cara a wordless curtsey before retreating.

She lay on her stomach, pulled several throw pillows around her, and read
in the bright light. Rays poured in through the glass and lit up her body, as she
reclined with the medieval book propped up on a cushion. Today, she wore a
halter neck corset, with her chemise pulled down her shoulders, leaving an
expanse of her back naked. The scars became silver chains in the sunlight;
running between her shoulders until they disappeared under the rich, brocade
fabric of the corset. She looked like a larger version of the petite butterflies,
radiant beams dancing over her body.

Cara spent the previous week searching amongst her father's notes for any
references to Egypt and Nefertiti's Heart. Although he went to great length to
describe his chase and ultimate possession of the artifact, he clammed up when it
came to saying what he did with the relic. Much to Cara's dismay, the Heart
appeared to be the only object without a definitive resting place. She had
compiled a list of banks, security houses, and a few country estates to visit to
amass the remainder of the collection.

The book from Helene proved slow going. The ancient English and tiny
script gave her headaches after only a short time of study. She read a passage
numerous times before the words slowly made sense. Flicking through the
pictures at least yielded the correct section to read.

She heard Nathaniel's boot heels as he entered the lush garden room. The
daybed dipped as he sat. With an arm on either side of her, he leaned over to trail
kisses along her exposed shoulder blades. His kiss was a sensual greeting, far
superior to any handshake or polite bow. A shiver ran through her body, followed
by a deep sigh.

"You're blocking my sun." She rolled onto her back to stare up at him. He
trapped her within his arms, his eyes locked on hers. Heat spread over her torso
and her breath hitched in anticipation. The fear in her gut stretched and extended
a sharp claw, reminding her it still dwelt inside. She wondered what she would
do if Nathaniel lowered himself onto her—panic and knee him in the groin, or
dissolve into a puddle of gooey longing?

He brushed a fingertip over the blue-black bruise on her face, courtesy of
her bout in the pub earlier in the week. The tiniest fragment of worry flickered
behind his eyes before it disappeared. "You seem to have made yourself at
home."

"I thought I would save Jackson or Miguel from sitting outside the library
all day. I figure if I'm here, you know exactly where I am."

"How's the research going?" He sat up, breaking eye contact and rendering
her internal question hypothetical, at least for the moment.

"Slowly. According to the oral histories, when Nefertiti died, her heart was
removed as part of the normal mummification process. Instead of the expected
organ, they found a gem." She clutched the ancient book to her bosom like a

protective talisman. "The legend says the purity and strength of her love for
Akhenaten was such that her heart turned into a diamond. Showing their love
was eternal, enduring forever, like the gem."

Nathaniel raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Sounds like a cold sort of love, if
she had a diamond instead of a heart."

She blew a raspberry at him. "Men. Obviously the romance of the
symbolism is lost on you."

"Not at all."
His low tone vibrated through her body. She dropped her eyes back to the
book, which proved rather ineffectual as either talisman or shield.
"Then what happened?"
"Anubis was touched by the strength of their love. He said he would
release Akhenaten from the Underworld, and if he could find Nefertiti in the
next life, he would grant them life, eternal as the diamond heart. He offered
Akhenaten immortality."
Nathaniel trailed his fingers down her arm. "So where do the keys fit into
all this?"
Cara exhaled a held breath, while trying to marshal her thoughts, a
difficult task with Nathaniel so close, and stroking her.
"The heart is part diamond, part mechanical, with gold cogs and gears.
Lapis lazuli and heliotrope veins run through the middle. From what I remember,
father could never get it to work." She tapped the closed book. "According to

this, Akhenaten is Nefertiti's true love. Only he possesses the key to her heart,
which will allow him to claim their immortality. He must unlock the heart,
which, I assume, requires some form of a key."

"But it's just a story, an oral folktale." He took the book from her grasp
and set it on the daybed, leaving her with nothing to shield herself from him.

"I've seen the Heart. I wouldn't have a clue if it really is a diamond or not.
Gemmology didn't interest fourteen-year-old me." At fourteen, she had more
immediate concerns, like how to escape her weekly beating. She saw the artifact
the week before her father gave her to Clayton, occupying pride of place on his
desk in the library. He would spend hours staring at it, trying to figure out the
mechanism. Cara thought it gruesome; who would want to fashion a gem into an
organ? The Heart sat on his desk that final day, when everything faded to black.

"I wonder if it truly is a diamond. A gem that size would be worth a small
fortune, without the added provenance of the murders." The treasure-hungry
pirate glinted in his eyes. "You'd be a very wealthy woman. Have you found it
yet?"

"No." She chewed her bottom lip. A diamond the size of a fist, and she
couldn't find a single clue to its whereabouts. "Given the thing was stolen from
its original owner in Egypt I would need to use your services to offload it. And I
assume you'd still want your seven percent? So you stand to earn a tidy sum as
well."

His eyes roamed over her reclining form. "You could try to haggle me

down to five if you want?"
"What would it cost me?" She could barely ask the question, before the

answer blazed in his eyes and singed the clothes from her body, leaving her
exposed. "Nathaniel—"

He bent his arms on either side of her, lowering himself, but keeping his
weight on his hands. "Nate. I want you to call me Nate."

"I thought that was only for intimate acquaintances?"
"Perhaps it's time we fixed that?" He bit her bottom lip, making her gasp,
before dropping his head to cover her mouth. His kiss was unhurried, slowly
possessing her, letting the heat build between them. His tongue explored every
surface of her mouth, claiming its territory.
She curled her fingers deep into the calico cover of the daybed, clutching
handfuls of fabric as his tongue danced with hers. She was scared if she put her
hands on him, touched him, she wouldn't be able to stop.
Releasing her mouth, he moved to her throat, licking and kissing the
delicate skin down to the base of her neck. He followed the line of her
collarbone with his mouth, gently nipping the bone.
"Nate." His name became a cry on her lips. She arched her neck off the
pillow, the heat he invoked pooling in her centre. One of his hands stroked up
her side, reaching for the underside of her breast, but frustrated by the thick
brocade and boning of her corset. The fear stretched within her.
Nate stopped and sat up, surveying the damage he wreaked on her self-

control.
Cara breathed hard. Guess the answer to my question is, dissolve into

gooey puddle of longing.
"How is it you have travelled the world without a chaperon? You move

about London with no one to watch your every move." The change of topic gave
her a chance to catch her breath.

"You've tried, remember?" She chided him of his attempts to tail her. "My
grandmother always gave me a considerable amount of autonomy. And it's not
like we have to worry about my reputation being ruined."

"I only watch you to ensure your protection, same as any chaperone, and
to ascertain if you have any suitors." He sat next to her so composed, but she
noted his chest rose and fell faster than usual.

As much as he created turmoil within her, she affected him too. She
tucked the titbit of knowledge away as she stroked the cover of the ancient book.
"I don't need protecting. Or any suitors, I'm not the marrying kind of girl."

External dangers didn't concern her, except for the one right in front of
her, capable of stealing her breath. She'd made up her mind days ago to follow
her fascination for him, regardless of where the allure led her. She had shut
herself away in a tower for too long. "My father tried to marry me off in absentia
once, not a hugely successful endeavour for him."

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. "Who was the poor unfortunate
you scorned?"

"I have no idea. It was a couple of years ago. I was in America when Nan
forwarded his letter. I refused to return to England. Apparently the solicitor
wouldn't proceed without some indication of consent from me." A mischievous
glint shone in her eyes. "Or perhaps he forged my name, and I am married, but
just don't know it?"

"And now? Don't you want to regain your place among the ton?"
She threw up her hands; a darting butterfly settled on her outstretched
limb. The insect's red and gold wings glinted and winked before it took flight,
heading back to the protection of the shrubbery. "I'm twenty-one and my father
is dead. Countess de Sal said I was free and I intend to remain that way. Besides,
no man would dare try and claim me."
"I would dare." His face was dead calm, with no hint if he joked or was
serious.
She held her breath. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of him in
charge of her life, of waking every morning to his intense gaze over the breakfast
table, or finding his head on the pillow next to her. "My grandmother would
never agree. Nice try. You won't get your hands on the artifacts that way."
"You still think that's my motive? I thought I was plain in my attempts to
get my hands on you? Perhaps I need to be more obvious." He made to lean
toward her again and she gave a yelp and sat up.
Their attraction wasn't a line of conversation she wanted to pursue.
Certainly not while she lay on a bed in the sun, breathless from his passionate

kiss. An idea chewed its way through her brain. "What if these artifacts aren't
just ancient objects?"

"What else would they be?" He rose from the daybed and moved to stand
amongst the greenery, putting physical distance between them.

She watched him lean against a palm so tall its fronds pushed against the
glass roof of the conservatory.

"What if they actually did the things the oral histories purport they do?"
She voiced the thought that itched in the back of her brain for days, ever since
taking possession of the book.

He frowned. "That would be impossible."
"Is it? What if Boudicca's Cuff really does give the holder success in
battle?"
Nate was silent, giving the idea some thought, rather than dismissing her
out of hand. "Business is a type of battlefield. I can enquire as to the investment
success of the person who purchased the cuff. It will be easy to chart the course
he has taken and whether he won or lost."
A small measure of relief crept into Cara. The effect of the cuff was
something they could quantify. The note from her father gnawed at her: careful,
they are not what they seem. Cara initially thought he referred to an enemy,
perhaps the person who delivered the asp. A friend or acquaintance who
masqueraded and hid their true intent. But with each passing day, she became
more convinced he meant the artifacts.

"Maybe that's why my father was so paranoid. He knew. It would explain
the extraordinary lengths he took to acquire the artifacts. And the layers of
security he maintained over where he hid them." She still didn't know where to
look for the Heart, his prized possession and his biggest secret.

Cara packed away the books in her satchel, her mind too fragmented to
carry on with the intense study. Something else ate at her, something tied to the
brutal deaths of three girls. "What if Nefertiti's Heart really can confer
immortality?"

He let out an appreciative whistle. "Then it's not just incredibly valuable,
it's priceless."

"How do you tell if someone is immortal?" she whispered.
"You kill them, and see if they get up again," he answered, always
pragmatic.

Chapter Eighteen



Saturday, July 20

The small millinery shop had called Cara's name from the very first day
she strode past its window. Numerous gaudy hats in riotous colours stocked the
bay window. To one side of the display hung an elegant little dark green number;
it looked plain and unadorned next to its excessive companions. Unlike the other
hats, some of which sported at least half a chicken, this one had only three
peacock feathers curling over the large brim. She didn't normally succumb to
girlish frippery, but, very occasionally, the need for something pretty crept up on
her. Today, she finally gave in to temptation and entered the store.

The shop buzzed with a multitude of women trying on hats, stroking
feathers, and playing with chiffon ribbons while keeping up constant
conversation. Cara eyed the little felt hat in the window, wondering if the colour
would reflect the tint in her eyes. The hat had a restrained style. A wide brim
gave quite a different feel from the bonnets or miniature top hats, which covered
every surface in the store. Cara reached out a hand, about to lift the hat off the
hook dangling from the ceiling, when a hiss from behind froze her fingers.

"My daughter would be alive if not for you," a loud voice accused her.
All thoughts of the hat fled her head. After a brief check of her mental

armour, she turned. A tall, angry-looking woman glared at her. Four women
surrounded her, and nodded their heads. The group was all draped from head to
toe in black, indicating recent loss and full mourning. They gripped a variety of
black hats with thick, concealing veils, and all eyes narrowed to examine her.

"Excuse me?" Her eyes swept the small shop. Along with the group
dressed in black, the other shoppers turned to gawk. Cara hadn't expected a
showdown at the milliner's; she wasn't dressed for the occasion. With the advent
of the warmer weather, she'd left her jacket at home as well as her shoulder
holster and hip belt. A Derringer nestled against her thigh, but she would have to
lift her skirts to reach the tiny gun. The only other weapon on her was the blade
concealed under the fold of her sleeve. Knives were messy, and she hated to
splash blood on her corset.

"These murders only started when you came to London. Our daughters
would be alive if you had stayed away." The woman's tone climbed toward
hysteria. Her friends patted her arms and made agreeable noises while shooting
Cara deadly looks.

"I think you have me confused with someone else." Cara kept her tone
calm. She never suspected hat shopping would be so fraught with tension. No
wonder she normally avoided the girly occupation; this could turn her off
shopping for life.

"The Enforcers say you are involved. They have been asking questions
about you and your father. My daughter died a matter of days after you

appeared." The woman swayed on her feet, and grabbed her supporters. They
lowered her onto a seat placed behind her.

She placed the hysterical woman now: Lady Lovell. Her daughter Jennifer
was the first victim of the mysterious killer. Or second, if he started with Lord
Devon. The Enforcers' interest in Cara was now out of the bag. A shiver ran
down her spine. And so it starts, the stares and taunts and outright hostility.

"Beth Armstrong was found in a stone sarcophagus that took four strong
men to lift the lid. If I am responsible, how do you think I achieved that on my
own?" Cara thought it funny how hysterical people ignored logic. However, they
obviously decided as a group she was the scapegoat. She got the distinct
impression the only way to prove her innocence to these people would be to get
herself murdered.

"You're not wanted here. You're an unwelcome taint in the air." Lady
Lovell narrowed her eyes and shot her words like bullets.

She hoped the woman's grief spoke, but she saw the nods and murmurs of
agreement from the other noblewomen in the shop. She straightened her back
and maintained her dignity. She refused to crack in front of them. She would
never give them the satisfaction of knowing how deeply they cut her. "When
they catch him, you will realise how wrong you are."

"We're not wrong about you."
Cara refused to debate her suitability as a murder suspect, and slipped out
the door. She thrust a sob back down her throat. Eyes downcast, she all but ran

along the pavement.
She burst through the doors to the Mayfair address before she knew what

she was doing.
Jackson gave her a startled look.
"Is he free?" she demanded.
"No. But he'll see you, darling." He gestured with his head and another

imposing bodyguard swung the study door open to admit her.
Nate looked up from his desk at the intrusion. Brief curiosity crossed his

face at her obvious agitation.
She paced in front of his desk.
"I thought you didn't need my protection, but you look like you wished

you had it today."
She halted mid-pace and scowled. Damn it! I've run straight to him. He

was a magnet and she was a piece of metal. In her distress, it seemed natural to
run in this direction. She needed his calm presence to wash over her and soothe
her anguish.

"Weren't you toying with leaving London?"
"Inspector Fraser told me I'm not allowed to leave until he has completed
his enquiries." She waved her hand, trying to dismiss Fraser and his
investigation from her mind.
He made a discreet snort, which sounded like disdain. "I can put you on an
airship. Where do you want to go?"

She was sorely tempted; she could go anywhere. With a pirate at the helm,
an incredibly handsome pirate. An idea crept into her head and erased the
unpleasant encounter she endured in the hat shop. A sly smile spread over her
face.

"Where's Loki headed next?" She tried to sound nonchalant.
Nate blinked and laid his pen down. She had his full attention now, his jaw
clenched and unclenched. "Perhaps not with him."
She shrugged; she saw the reaction she was after. He appeared impassive,
but she was learning to search his face for minute changes and clues to what was
going on behind those pale blue eyes. "Does your offer of an evening's
entertainment still stand?"
"Of course. What has happened?"
"I've just been accosted in a milliner's shop and accused of murdering
those girls. I'm tired of two-faced nobles who throw baseless allegations about
me." She resorted to more pacing, waiting for her agitation to run its course.
Worn out, she placed both hands on his desktop. "I'm tired of hanging in the
shadows, keeping out of their way and skulking as though I have done
something wrong. It's time I confronted some demons head-on. And I think
you're just the person to have my back."
The corner of his mouth twitched; she longed to see him smile again and
was curious about what it would take.
An impulsive idea bubbled to the surface of her mind. "Will you take me

to Su-Terré?"
She licked her lips as she spoke the name of the illicit underground club.

As a child, she heard the name, whispered by adults in the same hushed, excited
tone children used to talk about presents on Christmas Eve. The club only had
one currency—escape. You went there to either procure it or provide it.

His eyes narrowed. "Not yet. To go there, you have to answer a question
for me. Are you mine, or willing to be traded?"

Mine. His words washed over her. Are you mine? Her nipples tightened
against the stiff fabric of her corset at the idea. She parted her lips, needing to
moisten them again. His eyebrow shot up, waiting for her response. She let out a
heavy sigh; she wasn't ready, not yet.

"I have some business to conduct tonight at Savage's. I can escort you
there, if you wish to accompany me?" He offered Savage's, instead, a legitimate
playground for the wealthy in fashionable St James, containing a ballroom and
several gaming rooms.

"At the gaming tables, I assume?" She wondered who would be relieved
of their fortune tonight by choosing to sit opposite him. It would be interesting to
watch him play.

"No. The ballroom. It's a far better place to hold a civilised conversation,
saves all sorts of unpleasantness from sore losers."

She was taken aback; the ballroom was a far more crowded venue than the
quieter poker tables. She turned the idea over in her head. Most of society would

be there tonight; they sought safety in numbers, and with high summer
approaching, the season was nearly over. The next week or two would see them
leave the city for country estates. It would be a very public stand. She wouldn't
just be coming out from the shadows, she would be standing under an airship
searchlight. "All right."

One black eyebrow arched. "So you'll be dancing?"
She stiffened; she hadn't considered that proposition. She thought to
simply watch and annoy the ton by breathing or stealing the last smoked salmon
canapé. Dancing meant being held. Close. The monster inside her stirred, and
lifted its head, but held its place, Nate's touch becoming something she craved,
rather than feared. She didn't have to go. She could turn and retreat back to her
rooms, forget she ever mentioned confronting the ton. But she'd spent years
running and she grew tired of it.
"Bathe and change while you think about it. I have a dress you can wear
for the occasion."
"Show me." Her voice was hesitant. "Here, now. What would it be like?"
He rose from his desk and approached her in slow motion. The blood
rushed through her veins and pounded in her ears so loudly it drowned out his
carriage clock on the mantle. He stopped inches from her. He picked up her right
hand in his, holding it high. He slid his other hand around her waist, his fingers
resting in the small of her back. His gaze never wavered from her eyes as he
drew her to his chest.

Cara gasped at the intimacy of the embrace.
"It's scandalous to dance so closely." She tried to make light of the
anticipated panic. Her breasts grazed his chest. She wanted to close her eyes and
surrender herself to his touch.
"Good. It will give society something to be jealous about." His voice was
low and throaty next to her ear. With her so close, he could skim her neck with
his lips.
She held her breath, waiting for the monster to protest, waiting for the fear
to force her to flee, but it had diminished in size over the last few weeks and
remained silent. Instead, laughter welled up. She thought how jealous the other
women would be, if he did this in the ballroom. They would never dare to step
into his arms. They could only press their thighs together and dream of his lips
tasting their bare skin.
She smiled; she trusted him, at least this far. "Let's do this."
He kissed her, his lips as gentle as his embrace. She leaned into him, the
hunger becoming more insistent, as she pressed against his body. Her growing
need openly challenged the fear residing within her for dominance, and need was
winning.
He withdrew and placed her at arm's length.
"Go change, or you might not make it out of my study." His voice was
thick with his desire for her.
She realised how close she danced to danger and scampered from his

arms. She flashed him a smile before ducking out the door and up the stairs.
The bath was luxurious, with its combination of steam and exotic oils. She

could have soaked all evening, letting the hot water leach away her cares and the
ugly confrontation in the shop. She poured the fragrant oil into her palm and
slathered it over her body, watching her skin absorb the tiny beads.

All too soon, the maid coughed politely and held out a towel. She toyed
with disappearing beneath the water, and pretending she wasn't there, but didn't
want to risk Nate coming to retrieve her. Not tonight, anyway.

Once dressed, she twirled in front of the mirror. What am I doing?
She couldn't fathom how Nate commissioned the gown and had it
completed so quickly. Breathtakingly unconventional, the dress was made to be
worn with no crinoline, heavy petticoats, or bulky drawers. The delicate, grey,
silk chiffon was scattered all over with tiny, silver embroidered stars, and a
diamante winked in the centre of each one. Apart from the dress, he provided a
diamond choker to encircle her slim neck and a diamond-encrusted pin to nestle
amongst her hair. The maid threw her hands up in despair at Cara's closely shorn
locks. She finally decided to slick it back, making Cara's hair sleek like an otter
pelt, before tucking the jewels behind her ear.
She paused at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to stare down the
stairs at him, conferring with one of his men. He was handsome in his formal
tails, the jacket tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His waistcoat
gleamed the same pale grey as her dress, also sprinkled with embroidered stars.

They would complement each other this evening.
She tried to analyse the tug deep in her gut whenever she saw him. Is that

the appeal, purely his attractiveness? Or is it something deeper? Love was the
sort of thing a girl would discuss with her mother, if she had one. Hers had died
in childbirth, giving her life for Cara's. There was a hole in her life, in her heart,
where her mother should have resided. I need to talk to Nan.

With one hand on the balustrade, she stepped off the top stair.
Nate's head shot up on hearing her light tread. His eyes drank in every
move she made in the sinuous dress, as she descended. He moved to the bottom
step, to take her hand, raising it to his lips while his eyes locked with hers.
She held her breath. He made the formal gesture into something far more
intimate. His lips brushed the back of her hand, a promise of so much more to
come, if only she dared reach out and take it.

Chapter Nineteen




The carriage came to a stop under the portico to Savage's, on King Street.
Aristocrats of all different levels poured into the large entranceway, eager to
commence their night-time entertainments, despite the growing fear of a
madman stalking amongst them. Cara closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Are you ready? Or would you rather go somewhere quieter?" Nate asked
from her side. "Boxing, perhaps?"

In high society, a woman's reputation was everything, the only jewel she
possessed, and it had to be closely, and vigorously, guarded. Cara's reputation
was permanently ruined. She never debuted. She wasn't fit to be seen with the
chaste daughters who were once her childhood friends. She travelled for seven
years, learning about herself, and now she would step into the centre of their
territory and challenge their views openly.

She opened her eyes, wide and full of defiance. "I'm ready. They can't
shun me anymore or gossip behind my back. Let's see if they are brave enough
to do it to my face."

He leaned in and kissed her bare shoulder, sending a ripple down her
spine. "I've got your back."

He helped her from the carriage.

A newsboy stood on the pavement, waving the evening paper, yelling in
his clear voice, "Enforcers clueless in senseless murders!"

Some of the men stopped, tossed the boy coins, and took papers from his
outstretched hand. She could hear the murmurs running through the crowd,
repeating snippets from the article. Murder of the lower classes was entertaining
news; murder amongst their set sparked discord and fear. Three murders of
eligible girls put a dampener on the Season. Cara could see fathers and brothers
closely watching their daughters and sisters. No one would slip unnoticed from
the ballroom tonight.

She entered Savage's on Nate's arm. On the entranceway floor, terra cotta
red, navy blue, and cream tiles spiralled ever outward in an intricate pattern.
Overhanging the centre of the pattern, an enormous chandelier, several tiers
high, threw light in every direction. Cara picked up the corner of her skirt as they
descended the red-carpeted stairs into the lavish ballroom. Chandeliers hung
every few feet; the crystals picked up each light and threw it back to play with
the diamonds and jewels adorning the women. They sent rainbows of colour
whirling around the room. The deep blood-red walls heightened the emotion of
the room and projected it back on the occupants.

Mechanical waiters glided through the patrons, serene, like swans. Their
movements were perfectly fluid so as not to disturb the trays of champagne
flutes and canapés attached to their metal limbs.

Heads swivelled; opera glasses and pince-nez raised as the dowagers

present sought to identify Cara's face. They tried to ascertain who got the jump
on their precious daughters by appearing with the much-sought-after viscount.
Murder aside, marriage was a serious business, and Cara, an unexpected
intrusion. Nate was notoriously cagey. He never courted anyone openly and he
was fast approaching the age all good heirs were expected to tie themselves
down. The titter of gossip rushed through the crowd like a wave approaching the
shore. The wall of chatter crashed against the sand, turning to gasps of shock, as
the handsome couple descended farther into the room.

The light from the chandelier caught and played with the diamantes sewn
onto Cara's dress. The stars glittered in the refracted light of the ballroom,
clothing her in an early evening sky. The sensuous fabric clung to her slender
form, the front a simple drape dropping straight to the ground. Sleeveless, the
skirt spilled into a sinuous train behind her. The back cut scandalously low, a
silver chain holding the two sides together across her shoulder blades. The effect
highlighted the scars running over her spine and made them part of the dress
design.

Society enjoyed gossiping about violence committed behind closed doors,
but they didn't like to be openly confronted with the results of abuse. Or to see
brutality as headline news. But, no one could deny what had been done to her,
not when Nate so elegantly framed her scars.

The press of people surrounded them, and Cara saw the effect of the
unsolved murders ripple through the ballroom. Daughters were closely guarded,

potential dance partners scrutinised by male family members before releasing a
delicate hand. Fathers prowled the edges of the floor, watching with eagle eyes
and swooping down to reclaim loved ones once the dance concluded.

"Dance with me," Nate whispered. "Since they are all going to gossip
about us anyway, let's make it completely scandalous."

The orchestra occupied one end of the cavernous ballroom, the music
amplified and circulated around the room. As the opening refrain of a waltz
played, he swung her into his arms. He held her far closer than acceptable, his
chest millimetres from hers. His hand spanned the flesh at the small of her back.
His fingers gently stroked her exposed spine.

She wanted to close her eyes and bask in the sensation as they moved to
the slow music.

This must be what a cat feels like, lying in front of the fire and having its
fur stroked.

A mental image flashed through her mind. She lay naked in front of a
fireplace, the heat from the flames settled over her like a blanket. Nate ran his
hands up her body, igniting an inferno. She flung her eyes open before she
became lost in her daydream, to find his cool gaze washing over her face.

He drew in a sharp breath. "Whatever are you thinking about? I hope it's
us doing something naked, because your eyes have changed from hazel to green,
as they do when I kiss you."

She dropped her eyes, trying desperately to cool the heat rising up her

neck. She looked around for a distraction, searching for an inane topic of
conversation. They waltzed past a waiter circulating with a tray of hors
d'oeuvres.

Canapés? Oh, hell. Her mental picture changed to one of his dark head
bent over her as he licked a trail of caviar off her stomach. His tongue probed
into her bellybutton, lapping every trace of the expensive delicacy from her skin,
as fire stabbed through her core. She moaned and arched her back under his
touch. She fled from the image; her mind returned to the ballroom and Nate's
intense gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitched, as he held in his laughter. "Perhaps I'll
torture the details out of you later. It certainly looks worthwhile, to know what
occupies your thoughts and makes you blush."

She changed the topic, to save her sanity. "Any word about the person
who bought Boudicca's Cuff?"

"A little. A business deal no one thought would succeed reaped him
unexpected rewards. I intend to probe further this evening. Tongues are looser in
this sort of environment." His eyes scanned the room, seeking out those he
would subject to his scrutiny later.

As they danced, her line of sight caught a face burned into the back of her
brain, a visage that had given her nightmares for more years than she cared to
remember. The colour drained from her cheeks and she faltered.

Nate tightened his grip, lest she fall. Spinning her, he cast around for what

caused her to miss a step.
"Remember who you are," he whispered. "You're a survivor, a fighter."
Her eyes narrowed, she remembered the dig Amy's fiancé threw at her in

the restaurant. Clayton justified his behaviour by claiming she wasn't a maid.
The implication clear—she either deserved her fate, or worse, invited his
brutality.

"What's getting you angry?" his voice brushed over her ear.
She gave a start. Either he read her far too easily, or she was flashing her
emotions conspicuously this evening. "Let's see how well you remember your
history lessons. The Romans promised they would never throw a virgin to the
lions. Do you know what they used to do, to ensure that?"
His eyes flicked to where Clayton stood laughing with his cronies,
obviously sharing some joke amongst them, as they flashed looks in Cara's
direction. His attention returned to her. "The Romans had their guards rape all
the women first."
She nodded. "Exactly. So they could loudly proclaim no virgin was torn
apart by the predators."
"Who?" The dance ended and he drew her to the side of the ballroom.
She tightened her grip in his hand, remembering. Clayton could make his
loud boasts because he had had someone else defile her first. "His valet."
She shoved the memory back down again. "I need some air."
There were far too many people in the ballroom and not enough oxygen.

Even though she ditched the corset this evening, she found her breath coming in
shallow gasps.

They walked down the side of the ballroom, to where the doors to the
wide balcony folded back upon themselves. Her tormentor moved, ensuring their
paths would cross.

"Well, well. It's little Cara Devon," his familiar voice checked her step.
"Haven't you grown into something rather interesting?"

Time froze. Those in the ballroom, riveted to the spot, could only swivel
their heads to watch the confrontation. Every voice silenced so as not to miss the
exchange; every syllable and nuance would be repeated a thousand times in
parlours over the weeks to come. Cara had spent seven years trapped in a cold,
black nightmare; she wanted to embrace the light. She needed a cleansing fire to
exorcise him from her soul.

I want to be free.
She used Nate as her touchstone. He radiated power and she drew on him.
She drank in strength through his touch. Once full, she untangled her fingers
from his, and approached her rapist.
She looked him up and down coldly. "Don't dare to presume you have any
right to address me."
He laughed. "But we're such intimate acquaintances." His words a taunt,
he threw down the gauntlet, to see how she would react.
She toyed with wrenching an arm off the mechanical waiter and spearing

the limb through Clayton's torso. She enjoyed the mental image of watching him
writhe with the animated fingers waving from a gaping chest wound. His blood
would spill over the floor, the colour mingling with the deep red walls.

"Old age has addled your brain. You're a rapist of children and no
acquaintance of mine." Her voice strong and sure, determined this weak old man
would never touch her life again.

"I'd watch this one, Lyons, she has teeth." Clayton laughed nervously. "I'd
recommend the liberal application of the lash to bring her into line."

"You seem to have mistaken me, sir. I don't need to force a woman. Nor
would I ever inflict violence on a child." His words were icicles, each one tossed
at the older man with lethal accuracy.

Cara leaned close to her tormentor. "You're pathetic, trying to pretend you
are something. You couldn't even get hard unless your valet had his hand on your
shrunken member, and couldn't finish the job without his finger up your arse.
You're a failure, both as a man and a rapist."

A titter ran around the room, as her every word was relayed. Titters turned
into snorts and suppressed laughter.

Anger flashed in Clayton's eyes, but he couldn't silence everyone present.
He leaned on his cane, his need for the assistance obvious in his awkward
movement.

A cruel smile crossed her face. The blow that enabled her to escape years
ago had caused his disability.

The colour drained from him; he stood before her in shades of grey,
revealing his frailty.

"I maimed you when I was only a child. Touch me now, and I'll kill you."
She turned her back to him, and holding her head high, she strode out to the
balcony. Conversation rose behind her.

The evening air was cool, after the humidity of the ballroom. The gentle
breeze refreshed her agitated skin, brushing over her in a soothing manner. She
wanted to bathe in the dark, to wash away the memories and release them up into
the night sky, leaving her cleansed. And whole, at last.

Nate approached her from behind; his arms slid around her waist as he
drew her back against his chest. She leaned into him, absorbing his steady
heartbeat, letting her own slow to match his pace.

"Are you all right, cara mia?"
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh, one she had held in for seven years.
"Yes. It's done. He's a weak old man and has no power over me."
Silence. There was no need for words and she wondered about the nature
of the strange relationship weaving itself around them.
What am I doing? She chastised herself.
Feeling, at last, a long-buried part of her answered.
"Cara?" The query came from Amy, seeking out her friend.
"Yes," she replied from within her cocoon of Nate's arms.
He kissed the base of her neck and she held in a cry, brief caresses no

longer enough.
"I have some business to take care of; I'll leave you with your friend. I'll

find you shortly." He released her and gave the briefest nod to Amy.
She kept her eyes fixed on the night-time streets of London. Small circles

of light danced around the street lamps, but they were too far apart to join hands
and push back the darkness. She tried to peer into the empty spaces between;
somewhere in there dwelt a killer. Or was he prowling the ballroom, unseen
amongst them, disguised as one of them? Even now, did he kiss a hand and waltz
with his next victim? Cara had drawn blanks in her search for a clue, to where
her father hid Nefertiti's Heart, and she wondered if finding the gem would stop
the killer, or attract his attention.

Amy watched Nate return to the ballroom, her eyes wary, before turning
on her friend. "Oh, Cara, what are you doing with him?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Her eyes were still miles away and she had to
drag her mind back to Amy's side.

"Viscount Lyons. He's so cold." Amy shivered, rubbing her hands up and
down her arms.

Cara shook her head. She could never think of Nate as cold, not with the
level of heat he provoked within her. "No. He's controlled. Don't mistake that for
being cold."

"Well, he's . . . a criminal," Amy dropped her voice to a whisper, as though
she thought he might overhear them.

That aspect of his reputation and business dealings didn't concern Cara.
On the contrary, she found his underworld involvement made him more
approachable, more open-minded. She merely kept a weapon handy.

"I think possessing both a title, and a fortune, trumps such a minor detail."
She knew how society operated. A man could get away with anything, as long as
he was wealthy enough, and a peer. "And besides, he doesn't hold my past
against me."

Amy flushed, embarrassed by previous events.
"Did Clayton do that?" Amy gestured to Cara's back and the silver scars
glistening in the subtle evening light.
"Yes." She closed her eyes, remembering how the lash ripped through her
young body. She arched her back against the pain. Instead of making her
compliant, each blow added to her resolve to survive, to fight back.
"Let's go have supper." Amy held out her hands, not knowing what else to
say.
Cara smiled. She was hungry. She fought a battle and emerged victorious.
"Let's find some champagne," she said. "When we were little, we were
inseparable, and then our lives took wildly different paths. Let's celebrate
burying the lost years and moving forward."
The two friends made their way through the buffet tables and laughed over
long-forgotten memories. They snatched champagne from the passing
mechanical waiters and toasted renewing their friendship.

Cara became an object of curiosity to the other men. She was free and
unrepentant in her refusal to bend to society's expectation. She displayed her
backbone figuratively by standing up to Clayton, and literally in the body-
hugging gown. Spirit and beauty were a heady mix for some of the young bucks;
she was an exotic creature amongst them.

Two separated from the pack, approached, and asked her to dance. She
politely declined, although she found the attention flattering. They refused to
budge from her side and she gave a frustrated sigh.

Across the room, she saw Nate look up sharply, then break away from his
conversation and head in her direction. A foolish individual stepped into his
path, and tried to engage him. The look he shot the man was more effective than
any knife blade; the man fell to the side as though dropped by a physical blow.
Nate reached her side, his mere presence shutting down the other men.

"You're out of your depth," he informed them, as he took her by the arm
and led her away.

***
Cara stared out the carriage window, her back toward him as she watched
the pedestrians. He liked her short hair; he didn't have to sweep it out of the way
to kiss her neck. There was something about a woman's throat that he found
infinitely appealing. He didn't know if it was the curve as it rose out of their
shoulders, or knowing how extremely sensitive the skin could be. And she was
constantly exposed to him. Leaning over, one hand on the side of the carriage for

support, he kissed her nape. His lips followed the vertebra from her hairline
down. She tasted of jasmine, the bath oil he laid out for her. He thought of her
naked form rising from the water and suppressed his groan. He had been so
patient, but every encounter tested him to his limit. Her mere presence heated his
blood to boiling point. He often resorted to fisting his hands until his short nails
dug into his palm, to stop himself from claiming her.

The dress revealed all of her spine to the small of her back. A sigh ran
through her body, making her shiver and ripple like silk. She grew accustomed
to his touch, no longer the bolting horse when he reached out a hand. Now she
responded to him.

He longed to follow each scar with his tongue, to turn them into a map of
desire coursing over her back. To watch them writhe under his caresses until she
cried for a release only he could deliver. Her scent wrapped around him. She
filled his mind, as he wanted to fill her, and his arousal strained against his
trousers at the thought. His lips had progressed only halfway down her back,
before she turned.

A seductive half-smile played across her carmine lips. "Nate." She
breathed out his name as a sigh.

Resting her head against the back of the carriage, her eyelids were heavy
as she tilted her chin to him. A subtle invitation for him to claim her lips, which
he could not refuse. He covered her mouth, his tongue demanding as it sought
admittance. A soft moan escaped her throat as she parted her teeth, allowing him

entry.
His arms snaked around her waist. His hands brushed the naked flesh of

her back as he drew her, unresisting, to his chest. For the first time, he truly held
her, hard against him, as his fingers ran up her spine. His mouth crushed her lips,
their tongues fighting for dominance that was part dance, part joust. She was
mead, and he wanted to become drunk on the taste of her.

He picked up the hem of her skirt and reached under. He followed the
contour of her leg, gliding over the silk stocking. With one hand on her knee, he
pulled her onto his lap, so she straddled him. He ran both hands up her legs,
bunching up the gossamer thin skirts, allowing him access to stroke the velvet
skin of her thighs. Her moan became more insistent.

"What are you doing to me?" her voice husky with desire as she caught
her breath.

"I'm setting you free." He pulled her head back down to his mouth,
claiming her, wanting her. Her hips moved against him. He groaned and ached to
be free of the impediment created by the layers of fabric. She was so close, the
silk knickers no barrier; he had only to open his trousers. He could only think of
being buried deep inside her and satisfying his burning need.

She froze, her breath hitched. "No." A sob of fear came from deep in her
throat.

He had pushed too fast and demanded more than she could give. He bit
back his frustration and lifted her off his lap and back on to the seat. Both of